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Speaker 1: The closing hand by Farnsworth right, solitary and forbidding. The

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house stared specter like through scraggy trees that seemed to

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shrink from its touch. The green moss of decay lay

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on its dank roots, and the windows, set in decavities,

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peered blindly at the world, as if through eyeless sockets.

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So forbidding was its aspect that boys, on approaching its

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cheerless gables, stopped their whistling and passed on the opposite

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side of the street. Across the fields, a few huddled

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cottages gazed through the falling rain, as if wondering what

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family would be so bold as to take up its

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abode within the gloomy walls of the old mansion, whose

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carpetless floors, for two years had not felt the tread

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of human feet. In an attic room of the house,

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two sisters lay in bed, but not asleep. The younger

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sister cringed under the dread, inspired by the bleak place.

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The elder laughed at her childish fears. But the younger

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felt the spell of the old building and was afraid.

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I suppose there is really nothing to frighten me in

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this dreary old house, she admitted, without conviction in her voice.

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But the very feel of the place is horrible. Mother

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shouldn't have left us alone in this gruesome place. Stupid.

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Her sisters golded with all the silverware downstairs. Somebody has

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to be here for fear of the burglars. Oh, don't

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talk about burglars, pleaded the younger girl. I'm afraid I

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keep imagining I hear ghost footsteps, her sister laughed. Go

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to sleep, goosey, she said. Haunted houses are nothing but superstition.

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They exist only in imagination. Why has nobody lived here

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for two years? Then they tell me that for five years,

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every family moved out after being here just a short time.

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The whole atmosphere of this house is ghastly. And I

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can't forget how the older Beckham girl was found stabbed

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to death in her bed, and nobody ever knew how

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it happened. Why she may have been murdered in this

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very room. Go to sleep, and don't scare yourself with

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such silly talk. Mother will be with us tomorrow night,

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and Dad will be back next day. Now, go to sleep.

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The elder sister soon dropped into slumber, but the younger

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lay open eyed, staring into the black room and shuddering

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at every stifled scream of the wind or distant growl

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of thunder. She began to count, hoping to hypnotize herself

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into drowsiness, but at every slight noise she started and

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lost her count. Suddenly she turned and shook her sister

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by the shoulder. Edith, somebody is prowling around downstairs, she whispered. Listen, Oh,

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what shall we do? The elder sister struck a match

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and lit the candle. Then she slipped on her dressing

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gown and drew on her slippers. You're not going down there, then, Edith,

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tell me, you're not going downstairs? It might be the

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murdered Beckham girl. Edith, don't. Edith shot a glance of

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withering scorn at her sister, who lay on the bed

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with blanched face and wide terrified eyes. There is something

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moving around downstairs, and I'm going to find out what

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it is, she said. Taking the candle, she left the room.

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Her younger sister lay in the darkness, listening to the

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patter of the rain on the roof and straining her

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ears to catch the slightest sound the noise downstairs ceased,

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but the wind rose and the rain beat upon the

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roof in sudden, furious blasts that made her heart jump wildly.

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Ten minutes passed, twenty minutes and Edith had not returned.

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A door slammed, and the younger sister thought she heard

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something moving again, But the wind began to lob and

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drowned out all other noises. Between gusts, she heard the

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portentous sound, and every time it seemed nearer. Then she

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started as she realized that something was coming up the stairs.

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Once she thought she heard a cry, to which the

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wind joined its plaintive voice in a weird duet. Nearer

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and nearer the strange noise came. It mounted the stairs

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step by step, heard only when the wind and rain

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softened their voice. It had passed the first landing and

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moved slowly up the second flight, while the girl fearfully

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awaited its coming. The wind howled until the house quaked.

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It shrilled by the eaves, and headed across the fields

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like a hunted ghost. And now the girl's pounding pulses

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drowned out the screaming of the wind, For the presence

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had invaded her bedroom. She cowered under the covers A

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cold perspiration chilled her body until her teeth clattered. Her

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imagination conjured up frightful things. A disemboweled spirit come to

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destroy her, A corpse from the grave, gibbering in terror

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because it could not tear the crements from its face,

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the murdered Burkheim girl with the knife still sheathed in

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her heart. Or some escaped beast, licking its lips in

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greedy anticipation of the feast her tremulous body would provide.

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Or was it a murderer, who, having killed her sister,

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was now bent on completing the bloody work. A flash

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of lightning split the sky, and the thunder bellowed its

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terrifying warning. The girl threw back the bedclothes and shrank

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to the wall, her eyes starting from their sockets, fearful

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lest another flash reveal some sight too ghastly to contemplate. Slowly,

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the being dragged itself across the floor, lifted itself into

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the bed, and uttered a choking sound of agony. The

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girl sat petrified, Then timorously, she extended a shaky hand,

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but quickly withdrew it in dread of some hideous contact. Again,

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she thrust her trembling hand into the gloom, further and further,

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until it touched something shaggy and wet. A clammy hand

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closed over hers, and she started to her feet with

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a horrible scream. The icy hand tightened with a sickening

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tremor and dragged her down. Then her tortured senses gave way,

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and she fell back, unconscious upon the bed. When she awoke,

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it was day. Beside her on the bed lay the

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bleeding body of her sister Edith, stabbed in the breast

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by the burglar she had tried to frighten off. The

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younger girl was clutching the clotted wisp of hair that

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had fallen across the breast of her sister, whose cold

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hand had closed over hers in the last convulsive shudder

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of death. The End of the Closing Hand by Farnsworth

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Wright